


Rich

by moonflowers



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Intercrural Sex, Like they're so in love I want to cry fluff, M/M, Nipple Piercings, No Dialogue, Overuse of Adjectives, PWP, Slight Sub!James, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 22:17:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13374189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: There was a moment of anticipatory clarity, where he imagined he could feel each rough fibre of the sheets under his shoulders, could feel his eyes dilate and his lungs expand, could hear a single bead of sweat fall the length of Thomas' back.





	Rich

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lena_221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena_221b/gifts).



> For Lena, my biggest enabler in all things Flinthamilton <3 And who I straight up stole the James having a nipple piercing thing from.  
> Some sort of Thomas is magically in Nassau AU set around season 2. I have no details beyond that. And it has nothing to do with the story but Gates isn't dead because I said so.  
> The lack of dialogue started off as me being lazy because I didn't want this fic to be too long, but then I realised I kind of liked it, so ironically it ended up getting longer because of that.

Gates had been talking for well over twenty minutes about some prize or another he believed a good choice for their next target, and though James had been listening to begin with, his attention was rapidly drifting elsewhere. The rooms of Eleanor's place were as full as they ever were, a jeering, chattering mass of crews thrown together to drink themselves to oblivion a sort of comfort in their familiarity. Smoke hung heavy above the tables, veiling the men beneath it, the guttering candles casting their faces a ghosting orange. The usual disagreements played out at the bar, high-spirited and raucous, though not yet anywhere near enough to call for intervention. Honestly though, the place could have caught fire or been raided by the Navy, and James barely would have noticed. His attention lay solely on Thomas.

Thomas was watching him just as closely across the narrow table, though his attention would occasionally flick down to James' lap before coming to rest pointedly on his face again. His eyes met James' with their usual brightness, but the drink and long day had had some effect; his eyelids were heavy and slow to blink, face tinted pink. James swallowed, and Thomas' lip twitched. He took another sip of rum, relaxed enough that he could enjoy the lightness, the giddiness of it as one was meant to, rather than the numbness he had used to crave and actively seek out during his years at sea believing Thomas to be dead. It was a sensation he revelled in after a long time of mostly keeping at bay, body warm and skin too tight, muscles lax but a sense of anticipation leaving him feeling ready to pounce at a moment's notice. 

He heard Silver say something, and felt Billy shift uncomfortably next to him as he gave a hesitant but firm counter argument. Someone laughed and slapped Billy on the shoulder in approval, another called for the girl with the ale jug. But James wasn't listening, ears full of the throb of his own pulse, slow and steady in his neck, thick as molasses. He ran his fingers over the ridges and dips of the table, tracing the grain with a nail, edges of the wood worn smooth from years of others doing the same. Gates could catch him up on the finer points of the discussion later; it was his job after all, and he'd forgiven James worse sins than inattention in the past. 

Their knees were already jammed close under the table, ankles hooked together and the leather of James' boot flush against Thomas' calf. But Thomas soon furthered things, as he was wont to do, and reached under the table with his damnably long arm to place his hand on James' knee. His composure didn't falter in the slightest; he remained elegantly sprawled in his seat, with all the entitlement he'd carried with him when they'd first met, his eyes fixed on James as he nodded along to Gates' thoughts on the prize, a single finger making slow circles over James' kneecap. To be honest, James was surprised it had taken one of them so long to reach out, though he wasn't surprised Thomas had grown impatient and been the first to do so. His hand couldn't further its progress much more without the movement becoming obvious, but he still managed to reach halfway along James' thigh, fingers rubbing and rolling, digging deep into the muscle, and James felt himself uncurling under his touch, stretching out to press his lower leg more firmly against Thomas'. 

James had become dangerously unaware of his surroundings; the bawdy singing and laughter of the tavern faded to a dull hum, the men around them an insignificant blur as he watched Thomas. That was until someone stumbled and lurched, knocking into James where he sat and jolting him forward, causing Thomas' fingers to dig painfully hard into James' leg. The man slurred an apology and shuffled off, but James paid him no mind. Thomas' abrupt hard grip on his thigh had woken James up, and he was suddenly and thoroughly finished with his teasing. 

He stood, chair scraping on the floorboards, and told Gates that he had something to see to and they would discuss the matter further in the morning. The quartermaster shot him an unimpressed look that made it obvious he wasn't fooled in the least, but agreed readily enough, and lumbered off to get himself another drink. The rest dispersed to see to the remainder of the night as they saw fit. James made for the door, Thomas close by his side, narrowly refraining from grabbing him by the hand with that old familiar eagerness recently relearned, or reaching out to steal a kiss with so many eyes on them. Granted, most had witnessed a great deal more salacious than that, but it wasn't their business, and he wanted no eyes on Thomas except his. They had to pause for a moment as they - quite literally - ran into Charles Vane on their way out, who did nothing more than snort and shake his head before ambling off to find Rackham, but they met no one else as they made their way upstairs. 

~

The room they had for the time being was the one James always took when he stayed at Eleanor's place; moderately sized, small windows and a lowish ceiling, but comfortable. And quiet. James' hand found its way into Thomas' after all, and he pulled them both through the door. A lamp was already burning, throwing a hot flickering light over the red wash on the walls, making the dark wood furniture appear all the more hulking cast in growing and shrinking shadow. 

The door was slammed shut, and James whirled them both around to hold Thomas up against it, knocking a small bowl of fruit on a side table in the process. He felt Thomas smile against his lips as he rushed up to kiss him, no doubt planning to make some teasing, silly, and utterly charming comment about James' enthusiasm, but he wasn't in the mood for words. James kissed him bitingly hard, a crush of lips and teeth, Thomas' hand rising to run through James' hair, twisting and pulling, nails on his scalp. They broke apart to breathe, though James refused to waste a moment, and ducked to press quick, rasping kisses to Thomas' throat, where the skin smelt of rosemary soap and a day's sweat.  
But then they melted, like wax losing its shape under heat; touches still firm but less harsh, less desperate and more lingering, drawn out caresses rather than blindly grasping at each other. Each had had the time and the inclination to misplace some of the manners they had previously possessed, which James once might have mourned but now saw the advantages in - there was no shyness or hesitation, any doubt, any longer. They got out of their clothes quickly, neither in the mood for much more teasing now they had only their own company to concern themselves with. Their bodies had altered, but the things unchanged were recollected, and the changes learned and rejoiced just as keenly. Each had scars the other had questioned or kissed or wept over, but it was not the night to dwell on them. 

After long, heady minutes of searching touches and exchanging kisses, James could barely think, nor did he much want to - he was happy to surrender to the blissful surround of Thomas, to feel, see, smell, taste, hear nothing but him. But Thomas, it seemed, was still coherent enough to mutter hotly into James' ear, to enquire what sort of play he might like from him that night. Thomas adored to take care of James, in every sense, and James was in the frame of mind to let him. Truthfully, it was rare that he wasn't - the days when he would rage and hiss and push him away were few and far between, days when he felt the weight of the things he'd done sitting on his chest and pressing in from all sides, the horror at the fate he'd abandoned Thomas to. But he would soon enough come back to himself, back to Thomas, and need him all the more after his guilt-ridden absence. He'd never felt desired, coveted, before Thomas had taken him into his household, nor at all in the years they were separated, but he was learning to feel it again. Patience thinning by the moment, James settled quickly on what he wanted, and told Thomas so. Thomas looked endearingly, innocently delighted to hear such a request, despite its not quite so innocent nature. He pulled quickly away from James, so quick it left James losing his balance in his wake, to rummage in the chest at the foot of the bed.

The bed itself was still unmade from that morning, James having given orders no one was to enter without his say so. It was hardly London, and the nature of their relationship was somewhat of an open secret, but he still didn't want to be interrupted and gawked at by a girl coming to collect dirty plates or some such triviality. Thomas set the bottle he'd retrieved from the chest aside for the moment, easing James back onto the bed to settle atop the tangle of sheets and the silky coverlet dyed purple. He moved willingly under Thomas' touch to lie on his back, the bedding cool against his heated skin. There was a moment of anticipatory clarity, where he imagined he could feel each rough fibre of the sheets under his shoulders, could feel his eyes dilate and his lungs expand, could hear a single bead of sweat fall the length of Thomas' back. He felt suspended, everything slowed to the thickness of honey dripping from a spoon.  
It fell away as Thomas kissed James briefly on the mouth, moving with surety down to the prickling hair on his jaw, to his neck, his chest, lips brushing his left nipple. James cried out helplessly at the sensation of Thomas' kiss-swollen lips on the gold hoop pierced through his flesh. He'd acquired it a short time after the piercing in his ear - some drunk of little consequence had taunted him over the gasp of pain he'd let escape at the not-sharp-enough needle on his skin. Being drunk himself and angered by the taunt, he'd gotten it done predominantly to make a point of his own courage and pain tolerance to those bored enough to have noticed the incident. The rest was merely a fortunate side effect he hadn't foreseen, but was immensely grateful for at that moment. Thomas teased him a while, playing the piercing with his tongue; broad, flat swipes and soft quick kisses over the pinked skin, plucking at the other with clever, work-roughened fingers. His other hand snuck down to trace feather light along James' cock, the first touch making him buck and curse, fingertips faint but sure on hot skin.

James couldn't have said how long passed in such a manner, but after some time lost in the heady mix of sensations, he resurfaced to Thomas gently asking him to change position, shifting so James was on his knees, nipples throbbing after Thomas' attentions, with the latter kneeling behind him and reaching for the bottle. The oil they had was ludicrously expensive by James' reckoning, and he dreaded to think where Thomas had procured it. It was made from a type of nut by his guess, thin and light, scented with something else sweet and fruity. James spread his legs apart a little before Thomas had to ask, body reacting to the familiar scent and eager for his love. A hand smoothed the sweet oil liberally over the sensitive, freckled skin on the inside of his thighs, his breath catching as Thomas nudged briefly against his balls, the hot underside of his cock, nipping at James' ear with affection before he deemed his work done. Still murmuring honeyed words in James' ear, Thomas eased them upright so James' back was pressed to his chest, his arms around him and cock slipping in between James' oiled thighs. James couldn't help but gasp and collapse at the initial sensation of Thomas against his flesh, the pleasure of the touch making him tense and shudder, head tipping back to rest on Thomas' shoulder.

He dimly heard Thomas laugh, deep and quiet, and press a kiss to his temple. James would try and remember to be annoyed with him for laughing later, but really, he doubted it would stick. Thomas' hands moved from where they rested on James' belly, one further down to grip at the meat of his thigh, fingers rubbing hard over the muscle and causing the tiniest prickles of pain as the hairs were caught and pulled the wrong way. He spoke all manner of things in James' ear as the other hand pulled on the golden ring through his nipple; declarations of how good he was and how well he looked, the old promises of how much he loved him, but spoken with a new and fiercer sincerity than years before. He tugged harder, letting the hoop catch around the very tip of his little finger, pulling James' skin almost unbearably tight before he let go to gently roll and pinch at it instead. Thomas' praise and promises grew more frantic, breaths quicker and broken, interspersed with hard, sucking kisses along whatever Thomas could reach of his neck. He fucked between James' thighs, the slick drag and rush of their skin loud in James' ears, even over the continuing hum of noise from the men downstairs. One oiled finger pressed firm over his hole. 

it was, quite literally, miles away from the first bloom of their romance; grey skies and chilly mornings, smoky fireplaces, cold hands under thick, stiff sheets, shy glances and careful negotiation in hushed chambers. It had never been allowed the time to grow to more. But now, here, they loved with abandon, without shame, bare limbs prickling with sweat in the hot evening, in a cheap room hung with poorly dyed silks, night air thick and sweet, the muted noise of men drinking themselves to oblivion in the rooms below. But the hand twined in James', slick with fragrant oil over calluses that hadn't been there years before, belonged to the same man.

When they had finished, they stayed curled together on the bed for a time, sweat cooling and breathing evening out together. James was almost asleep when the vague notion that he should bring Thomas something to drink occurred to him, but before he could properly form the thought or put it into action, Thomas was there, holding a cup to James' lips. They shared it between kisses, tired and contented. The moon was high, coming in through the open window and casting Thomas pale and pearlescent, the lamp now extinguished and taking with it the golden hue veiled over the room earlier in the evening. Thomas kissed his palm, and told him he loved him. And that - the fruit of both the most joyous and the darkest years he'd endured, the events and people that had shaped him, a far flung isle where it was of little interest to any who he loved, and in the bed of his lover once again, still there and still carrying that same love - was home.


End file.
